Signs
by Aoibhinn
Summary: To study the stars is a great feat to take upon...but it's still a heck of a lot easier than actually visiting those stars and having to get to know the people that belong to them. Hail to the books. Beware relationships. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS
1. Meet April

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Star Trek. It's its own franchise; therefore it's self owned. Kind of like Mickey Mouse movies._

_Chapter 1: Meet April, the Butterscotch Junkie_

Sadly, if someone offered me a year's supply of butterscotch in exchange for murdering you, you'd be in a heck of a lot of trouble. Butterscotch, in all its creamy, buttery flavorful-goodness, is my weak spot - my funny bone - my Achilles' heel - the Trojan horse to my Troy (am I the only one that finds it ironic that one Greek tragedy sparked so many allegories used to explain weakness?).

Where does butterscotch play a part in this tale you may ask?

Well, my best friend - pardon me_, ex-_best friend since yesterday - knew of my Trojan horse and used it against me. With a pan full of her mother's homemade butterscotch toffee (my X-BFF can't cook food worthy for starving butt-licking dogs), Fisha (aka X-BFF) wooed me into volunteering for Professor Bosh's work study.

Now I'm all for volunteering; especially for academic focused shindigs. Heck, I find encyclopedias more appealing than an attractive male that decides to rip his shirt off, but two parts of this work study make me wince like someone stuck too many lemons in my mouth.

First off, Professor Bosh is an egotistical flubber body-flea brain who only got tenure at Rat University of Archeology, where I'm currently studying for an advanced degree along with Fisha, because he pleaded being member to an endangered species. The Bosh species to be exact. And yes, they all are given the first name 'Bosh' (the full 3,000 of them)…even the females.

Don't ask me why. I didn't make the rule; I just tilt my head and gravely wonder why such things exist as they do.

As heartless as it sounds by complaining about this prof and not giving him any slack due to the fact that there may exist underlining depression due to there being so few of his kind (if I was part of an endangered species, I know I would feel…well, let's not touch on that base right now). Back to Bosh and his fellow Boshes. Approximately two centuries their planet made first contact with Earth, and from this contact the Bosh people were introduced to trans fats.

Toxic to the Bosh people. No. Healthy for the Bosh people. Big no! Since earthly trans fat became incorporated into the Bosh diet, three-fourths of the species has eaten themselves to death.

I'm not joking. The dean of our department won't allow Prof. Bosh anywhere near the kitchen, since earth food is practically meth dipped in heroine to him.

The second the more vital reason it took yummy yummy butterscotch to get me on this transport to study with fat-Bosh (my personal nickname for the airhead, boulder butt) is-

"Oh yipes, Ape! Look, it's the Starfleet headquarter buildings!" Fisha squealed from a window seat of our transport ship.

I can personally attest that this female Jaloxian (Fisha's native species) has walked on sacred grounds of alien planets, read scrolls and tablets of languages of millennia old cultures, and helped discover artifacts that made fat-Bosh soil his layers of blubber; all without blinking one of her golden eyes in shock. Give her an emporium of studly intergalactic flyboys, though, and Fisha becomes a tween waiting to buy boy-band tickets.

While my X-BFF was giggling like the twit she is, I tried to focus all my concentration on the lasted published work by Doctor S. B. Hallet. Hallet works at Starfleet as head of the Department of Exoculturalism and the only reason I didn't abandon ship after Fisha coaxed me aboard this crazy train.

Let's see, I skimmed over the lines of the reader screen, Bosh interrupted my thoughts right as I was getting to the section about Romulan birthing symbols.

"-and Ms. Pike I expect you to be in charge of introductions between myself and the captains…" the pompous, gurgling toned voice from the front of the transport called back, "Ms. Pike…Ms. April Pike!"

I could hear fat-Bosh perfectly, but was too busy trying not to break the micro-reader in my hands as my blood pressure rose ever higher.

That tub of lard wanted me to make introductions between his boulder butt and Starfleet captains. Like heck I would! I'd rather stick my head under an elephant with the runs.

"Oh, Ms. Pike," Bosh mouth opened and shut with slimy smacking noises, "Are you with us?"

My fingertips were becoming pink from the pressure, so I turned my attention to grinding my butt further and further into my seat. Hopefully one of two possibilities would occur. Either my butt and the seat would create so much friction heat that I would catch on fire and die (crossing my fingers that fat-Bosh would fry along with me) or I would dig a hole through and fall straight out of the ship (once again, this ends with the professor of lard's death via being sucked through the hole along with me.)

"April," Fisha whispered as she nudged my side; breaking my concentration on fatal escape plans.

Rolling my eyes skyward at my bad luck, I breathed deeply through my nose to let go some tension and gave a heartless thumbs up to fat-Bosh. He, in return, starting smacking those fat, slim-lips while lecturing about focus and how our field required the most serious, focused minds.

I just sat back and tried to imagine myself alone in some far way cave full of undiscovered artifacts from alien cultures long ago…and never-ending tin full of butterscotch toffee to keep me company.

Fisha must have recovered from the Santa Claus effect of Starfleet and its hunky hunks, because she asked in that wispy oh-so-girly voice that female Jaloxian's share, "Why did you bug out so much? I know you loath Bosh, but you looked ready to behead him with your reader pad."

"Should of thought of that one," I muttered to myself. With eyes still closed and signs of the headache ahead growing in my frontal cortex, I replied to Fisha, "It's nothing. Forget it."

This was how Fisha and I rolled. Her Jaloxian nature meant sharing feelings and thoughts and solving problems for others. Really, the entire planet and culture of Jalox (both female and male alike) portrayed a glittery, neon colored bar where everyone's drink is spike with estrogen and unicorn pee. I, on the other hand, buried my personal woes under four specialized degrees in branches of exoculturalism, time consuming work study trips to other planets, and spending time in my relationship with Mr. Silence-slash-Stolidity.

Healthy? No. Working? For now. Worth changing or messing with? Not even for a butterscotch sundae.

Sucky luck for me, I just had to go along and become chums with a member of one of the most touchy-feely species in the known universe.

"But I thought your dad works at Starfleet?" Fisha asked.

"He does."

"Are you two fighting?"

"No."

"Are you angry at him?"

"No."

"Is he-"

"No, Fisha," I interrupted and sat up; becoming sick of this emotional third degree, "Pike isn't mad at me. He and I aren't fighting. We're fine! If you must know, it's Starfleet I'm not so crazy about."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes in another attempt to find some solace during the final minutes of our voyage. Quickly, silently, and as sneakily as a cobra, the guilt towards my snappiness towards Fisha seeped into my stomach and hissed at me to apologize.

Opening one eye, I could see her rolling a finger through her turquoise hair. One thing that would always amaze me was how young Fisha appeared at times. When in deep thought, most humans look older and more mature than usual. Due to her alien blood, when Fisha was serious, her features instead turned younger and more innocent.

That cobra-guilt grew in a mass about six times greater after I saw how troubled and sorry my (now non-ex) best friend appeared. I reached over and tugged a strand of her hair. Fisha glanced back at me with guarded golden eyes. I smiled that sorry-smile she'd seen far too many times to count, and we silently made up.

I'm not huge on the hug/cry-and-a-make-up ways of most female friendships. Fisha tried it a few times when we first met, and soon realized that it was safe for us both if we interacted with only the least about of PDA possible.

One thing I do appreciate about picking out Fisha from the _many _Jaloxians studying exoculturalism (I'll tell you, the lot of them were just lining up to be my bosom buddy) is that she shared my philosophy about not holding a grudge after everything is said and done. As far as we were concern, the butterscotch toffee she gave to me yesterday as a scheming incentive was John Doe in a field of nowhere.

Is my outlook on life poetic or what.

We spent the last twenty minutes of the landing discussing the articles I'd read about Hallet. Finally, the captain announced we had arrived at Starfleet (be still my racing heart). Fisha, not sharing my lack of enthusiasm, went back to giggling and squealing in excitement.

If this reaction was going to become a common occurrence during our stay at Starfleet, there definitely was need to find some way to drowned out the noise before she condemned me to deafness.

I wondered if my Ipod 13.5 was in my carryon or the other luggage.

"Ms. Pike," fat-Bosh arose in all his slime glory and turned to address me, "Please walk by my side as we enter the administration building."

I didn't reply, and started rubbing my butt into the seat again.

"Ape, what are you doing?" Fisha asked with some concern as she slung her carryon bag over her shoulders.

"Trying to catch fire."

Laughing her wispy laugh, my friend wrapped one of her hands around my arm and dragged me out of the seat and along to the transport's exit.

As fat-Bosh and his eight interns stepped out of the transport, they all "oh"-ed and "ah"-ed at the grounds, buildings, and all the cadets wearing red jump suits walking from here to there.

From the look of their outfits, apparently there was a campus-wide ski trip planned for the cadets today. That would be my only reason for wearing something so dorkish and warm on a beautiful, sunny day.

"This is so awesome!" Fisha exclaimed at my side; her smile beaming brightly and nails digging into my arm as if I needed pain to know how jazzed she felt.

I half-shrugged in reply and tried to remember if this work study from the ninth level of hell would last two or three weeks.

**End Note: **_Review! Please, and I'll get up another chapter by next week._


	2. Meet Spock

_Chapter 2: Meet Spock, Pointy Ears…Need I say more?_

**Chapter's Quote: **_"I made friends with a Vulcan," I sang with a stupid little grin on my face as I reentered the food court_.

I'm probably committing some sort of moral crime by not being impressed by the Starfleet Academy. Aside from the dorkish outfits and its communist, military "yes sir, no sir" attitude, the architecture and history within these walls spoke volumes to exoculturalists like myself.

Landscapes inspired by the famous Wogol Gardens in the Quebic System. Lecture halls with ceilings replicating those in palaces built during the Ropolocoga Empire's fourth golden age. Not to mention the Academy's library which houses one of the most extensive collections of intergalactic records and literature throughout the known universe.

Fat-Bosh and his fellowship minions (the ones whose anatomy provided salivary glands) drooled as we passed a mural hand-crafted by the celebrated Chitchilan artist, Gratel-Ovick-Plack.

"-it's said Gratel painted this one is remembrance of a secret earth lover," our clueless cadet/tour guide shared his thoughts of the murals as he walked us through Cochrane Hall.

"Pssh! What a load of crap," I said quietly; careful not to destroy the young cadet's illusion of knowledge.

"Shh!" Fisha, walking beside me at the very end of our group, scolded me

"What?" I asked, "It's obvious by the direction of the warriors to the Chitchilan moon and the placement of the captain's third eye that Gratel was doing what he usually does with murals. Foretelling certain death to all. The guy famous for his Chitchilan doomsday nut ball ideals."

My dissection of symbolism in Gratel's work was lost on Fisha. After she discovered how our tour guide's mixed heritage of human and Aquan played out nicely in his features, she was lost to me.

"Stop acting so stuck up, Ape," my friend said; her smile not leaving just in case the ignorant cadet might look past our professor and seven other peers and caught her eye, "Anyone who's talked two minutes with you knows you're smart. No need to brag about it."

"I wasn't bragging. I was simply correcting our less than formidable-"

"Doesn't that book you follow say to be humble and not full of yourself?"

"Shut up," I grumbled back, and fished my headphones out of my jacket's pocket. Placing them in my ears, I tuned out the rest of the tour and felt slight regret at being kicked out from the front of the tour by fat-Bosh.

When we first arrived, he was under the unfounded assumption that I knew the face, name, and rank of all the Starfleet uppedy-ups. It wasn't hard to see his displeasure when I introduced our group to three captains and one admiral all named John Doe. Not willing to make a scene in front of the John Does, fat-Bosh had his ferret-faced assistant, Rodney Derkins Ph.D. (yes, he includes the 'Ph.D.' part when introducing himself), _escort _me to the back.

Continuing to ignore the ramblings of our less than proficient tour guide and the flirtatious glances of my best friend to him, I instead imagined myself back in my special, mental cave. Symbols carved into the arched sides, pieces of dead cultures pilings at my feet, butterscotch dripping from my mouth, and Kurt Cobain's axe rocking out in my ears.

It's much easier to block Fisha's criticizing voice when Cobain, the guys, and I jammed out in a cave on some far away ghost planet.

As I said before, this entire tour was wasted on me to a criminal extent. While the buildings are impressive, no argument there, the zeal of it all loses effect on me. Mostly due to Pike raising me for a number of years at the Academy.

I wonder if this lack of enthusiasm is how pastry bakers' children feel when they get a birthday cake every year?

Humming along with _Lithium_, I wondered if running up to the tour guide, Judo-chopping him into silence, and taking over commentary would cause too much commotion. Though the tour perspective would be from memories of my fifteen year old self, it would include the treat of revealing to them all the best hiding spots around Cochrane Hall.

Few other beings than myself can lay claim to playing hide-and-go-seek at Starfleet Academy with children of diplomats from over a dozen different species.

Turning to ask Fisha her opinion on the matter, I failed to notice the group has stopped. Not hitting the brakes quite on time, I bump into another member of our quarry, who in turn fell into Ph.D Derkins.

Looking backwards, Ph.D. Derkins gave me the evil eye and hissed, "Pike! Could you not act like a two year old for one minute? You're embarrassing Professor Bosh."

"Oh dear," I replied in a deadpan tone, "I hope I haven't injured him too much. The Bosh is like my hero you know. I'm even getting him a red cape for his birthday next year. The manufacturer is special ordering it, since they usually make capes in size XXXXX-Large."

The fellow exoculturalist that I bonked into earlier (he's actually a male Xiffian) snorted. Apparently I didn't hid my disgust for fat-Bosh as well as I thought. Ph.D. Derkins, on the other hand, just pushed his evil eye up to fifth gear (how dare I insult a him and his Ph.D.!), and turned back to include himself in fat-Bosh and the tour guide's conversation.

Glancing around, I recognized our pit stop as the public access food court. Off duty cadets sat at small tables chatting and eating, while others had chosen to eat at the tables set up right outside on a stone veranda to enjoy the sunny day.

Checking the time on my Ipod, the black number read 1:34 p.m. Since my group hadn't had a meal since we left the shuttle station, outside Old London City, about nine hours ago (and the family size bag of Cheetos I brought was _confiscated _by fat-Bosh…later I swore I noticed him going into the bathroom with yellow powder covered tentacles and coming out with clean ones), most of my fellow intellectuals stampeded over to the culdesac where food booths were set up. Not seeing turquoise hair and paper white skin among the hungry crowd, I pocketed my Ipod with plans to find out which poor male Fisha had victimized under her attraction beam this time.

A male cadets' locker room would have been a smart place to start.

"Good afternoon, Commander Spock," some unknown cadet said from across the chamber.

Instantly, I brain went _Bing! _

That name - Spock - rang a bell. Unfortunately, I couldn't place that bell.

Okay, time to whip out those excoculturalist skills.

Spock…the name obviously came from the Vulcan System. Easy to figure out due to the fewness in syllables. Turning to where I guessed the voice called to, my eyes scanned over the hustle and bustle of Starfleet personal for only a second or two before locking on a tall, black haired man. I squinted a little to see any tell-tale markings-

Bingo! Pointy ears. We have a Vulcan in our midst, ladies and gentlemen.

Since the Vulcan race wasn't famous for its dilly-dallying nature, I decided to figure out where I knew Commander Spock from before running up and introducing myself.

Also, "Hey, I'm April Pike. Do you know me from somewhere?" didn't seem like the thing to do either, just in case he wasn't the Spock I possibly was familiar with. I tend to avoid awkward situations as much as possible.

Mentally fingering through my grey matter files, I remembered the only significant time I spent on Vulcan was when its celebrated Vulcan Science Academy hosted several workshops for off-planet scholars.

At that time, Fisha and I needed fifteen more hours of alien planet course credits to enter a fellowship we both applied for (we both got in; at the time, neither knowing one of the fellowship leaders was a self-involved, fraudulent named Bosh). Taking the opportunity of Pike's free flyer passes expendable to family, we spent three days on Vulcan attending workshops mostly pertaining to Vulcan sociology and ancient Vulcan cryptology.

"Did I meet him at a workshop?" I asked myself; offhandedly twisting strands of my hair with my pointer finger and peering at Spock with a critical look. Apparently, I thought he wouldn't notice a strange girl staring at him from across the room.

Thinking back to those three days on Vulcan, my mind remolded them as well as could be expected after two years.

_Bing!_

I had it! The name Spock wasn't someone I met on Vulcan; it was told to me during one of the workshops. A workshop I didn't have any intention on attending in the first place. On the morning of the second day, I had overslept so told Fisha to go ahead and save me a seat at some masculine vs. feminine communication workshop we signed up for. By the time I got there (30 minutes too late), the doors were closed. Not wanting to waste my morning, I ran into the next available chamber where another workshop was about to begin.

Imagine my agony when the first speaker introduced us, the audience, to a presentation over Vulcan diplomacy.

I hate studying diplomacy. Not enough to want it out of all existence, but enough to not want to spent three hours listening to monotone Vulcans talk about it.

Preparing myself for a nice, long nap, I found my attention captured once that key note speaker began talking about her time as earth's ambassador to Vulcan.

"Amanda Grayson!" I said out loud happily.

"What?" some Cadet standing beside me, who thought it was okay to interrupt a person's private mental ventures, asked.

"Nothing," I replied; sidestepping him I fast-walked over to where Spock was climbing the metal staircase to the second floor.

"Commander Spock?" I asked when I got up to only a few feet behind him.

Stopping his climb, the Vulcan turned around and gave me such a solid stare that my body (lungs, heart, and all) literally froze in mid step like a deer in headlights.

Hypers, I forgot how intimidating Vulcans were in all their stolidity and non-blinking ways.

"Yes, may I help you?"

My swallow literally made a _gulp_ sound. "Um…hi. Sorry to bug you," I answered; the voice that came out portrayed a bashful twelve year old much to my misfortune, "I was wondering if you are related, in some way, to an Amy - I mean! Amanda Grayson?…_gulp."_

The Vulcan commander stared at me for a moment.

Needless to say, I felt like a kindergartener caught peeing in her desk chair.

Could have sworn, though, that his no-nonsense eyes shifted ever so slightly to curiosity.

"Yes," he replied finally, "Amanda Grayson is my mother."

My blood plus weakened from frantic to timid. Breathing deeply through the nose, I continued at rushed pace, "Well, if you could tell your mother, the next time you see her, that I really admired her presentation. That would be great."

And I turned to run away from the scary Vulcan commander, when-

"Where did you hear my mother speak?" his voice a tad friendlier this time and, what appeared to be, more interested in what I was saying.

Rather than continuing my plans to run far far far away from him (and risk having him call security on a crazy woman), I faced Commander Spock again with an pinch more confidence.

"The Vulcan Science Academy held an intergalactic conference over the Vulcan culture two years ago. Your mother spoke at a workshop about diplomacy between different cultures," the fog started to lift from my memories about Ms. Grayson and her speech as I kept talking, "She mentioned you a few times. Especially when she talked to me afterwards."

"So you were a student of my mother's?" Spock asked.

For some stupid, girly reason, this question brought a blush to my cheeks. "No," I answered; staring for a moment at my sneakers, "She and I kind of started talking after the conference. We ended up having lunch together, and she told me loads about Vulcan's history. I haven't contacted her since that day…unfortunately." I added in the last part to not seem like I was a jerk to his mom. Vulcans, especially males, are known for their strength and combat abilities, so it's best to avoid insulting them and their families.

Commander Spock nodded at my explanation; not appearing at all mad that his mother and I weren't recent acquaintances (thank you Lord). "Are you studying to become a historian, Miss…," he paused and it hit me that I hadn't introduced myself.

"Pike," I filled in, "April Pike. And no, I'm planning on achieving my doctorate in exoculturalism before by the end of next year."

"Pike is your surname? Are you related to Captain Christopher Pike?"

My mouth dropped to a frown and I died a little bit inside. "Yes," I sighed, "Captain Pike is my father. We get along great. I'm really proud of him and his achievements." My voice remained monotone as I vocalized an answer I'd given ten thousand times.

My father, who I really do get along great with, was a big cheese around these parts. For that reason (and many more), I tried to steer clear of Starfleet and its followers when able to.

The human side of Spock (yes, I was able to piece together pretty quickly that the being standing before me was half human/half pointy eared-stolid faced Vulcan) must have been dominant enough to read that I didn't want to dwell much on my relation to a Starfleet big shoot. Though he did say:

"I am submitting my resume to work under your father on his next appointed ship."

Sighing again, here came the reason why I hated Starfleet people knowing who my father was, I asked (out of obligation since it was me who sought him out), "Would you like me to put in a good word for you?"

"No, thank you," Spock replied instantly, "If I receive the position, I would like it to be on my own merit."

No resentment towards my offer. No drop of pride in his tone. Despite their naturally intimidating nature, I've always loved the Vulcans for their honorable manner and values.

"It is nearing 2 p.m.," he took out some Starfleet gadget doohickey to check the time, "I am due to oversee a test very soon."

"Oh sure!" my voice sounded a bit more excited than intended, "You go do that…nice talking - it was nice talking to you. Bye!" Quick wave, and I was headed back down that staircase like a bat out of Hell.

Something about those Vulcans really made me portray an adolescent on a sugar rush.

"Miss Pike," he called before I could make my great escape. Halting my descent, I turned and gave Spock a _"what have you, a well spoken-at ease, commander in Starfleet need to say to me, a psycho who basically implied you needed my help to earn a position in an area you probably excel in_" look. At least, that's what my mind was wondering as I gazed up at him.

His blood must have had some human cells mixed in, because those deep brown eyes soften and his lips curled upwards (not even an eighth of an inch, but upwards nevertheless) as he said, "Thank you for your complements of my mother. I will try to remember to pass them on to her when we next speak. It was a pleasure talking with you. Have a nice day."

And with that, he turned and walked the rest of the way to the second floor.

You could have knocked me over with a ribbon of tissue paper, I was so shocked. Slowly the feeling passed and an odd sort of joy and pride took over. So much so that I skipped the rest of the way back to the first floor.

"I made friends with a Vulcan," I sang with a stupid little grin on my face as I reentered the food court.

My skip and song abruptly ended when another noise passed me by and _Bing!_-ed my brainagain. An all too familiar Jaloxian female giggle coming from out on the veranda.

That giggle. I knew it better than the Holodeck's eighty proverbs on pacifist warfare (and I passed that class like chocolate laxatives through the large intestines).

"Fisha, not again," I hissed as I headed outside.

The veranda on the south side of Cochrane Hall gave a divine view. Well kept grass and small walnut, birch, and many other families of tree took up space between the building and a shoreline wall that held off the wide, blue ocean. Above the vast waters shown the midday sun beaming down on cadets and officers enjoying the warm air and smell of clean, salt water.

I, on the other hand, took no notice of the sun or ocean, since moment I stepped out onto the stone ledge I caught sight of Fisha and her newest interest. Perched up on one of the stone, circle tables, my best friend smiled as her pearly white skin shined almost as brightly as her teeth.

Rolling my eyes at a sight I'd grown sick of long ago, I walked over to her and the blond, cadet.

"April!" Fisha's smile redirected from the cadet to me once she noticed my annoyed presence, "You're just in time-"

"We should get back to the group before they move on," I interrupted; not keen on getting swept up in whatever venture Fisha hormones were cooking up.

Recognizing my evasion moves, Fisha replied with a corked eyebrow, "Bosh gave us the afternoon and evening off, April. If you hadn't been busy scarring your eardrum with that metalic music, you would have heard him."

"Metallica, Fisha," I corrected.

"You listen to Metallica?" the blonde beef at Fisha's side asked me; his charmed voice full of schmooze and empty interest.

"Oh!" Fisha slightly jumped in her seat and placed a hand on the cadet's shoulder, "Sorry, I forgot to introduce you both. April, this is James T. Kirk. James this is April-"

"Nice to meet you," I interrupted Fisha again. Something told me James T. Kirk wouldn't handle my association with Pike with the same sensitivity as Spock did.

"Call me Jim."Jim (or James T. Kirk) was a male human. Blond hair fell on his tan skin that covered a body full of toned muscles. The cadet wasn't bad looking by a long shot, so I knew right off that Fisha wouldn't be spending any of her free evening time with me and my ideas of a fun time.

If you're wondering why I wasn't swooning at this lickidy-lips, too gorgeous for his own good Starfleet man, please note that one: his darkened eyes and smirk towards my friend told me his intentions were less than Biblically sound, and two: I really can't take anyone seriously who wears that stupid, red, winter bodysuit.

"Well, Jim," I said, "I'll give an educational guess and say you want to spend some time with my friend here, so I'll leave you two kids to it."

And I turned for a second escape out of awkwardness of that day.

"But April," Fisha whined, "What are you going to do instead?"

Sigh, eye roll, and turn back around.

"My dear friend," I smiled kindly at her, "Although I ignored the majority of our penny tour through this fine establishment, I did happen to hear that the Academy's library holds the Orion Codex collection till the end of this year. Reading those volumes in their original form will bring me joy and happiness you wouldn't believe, so I'll be spending my evening there…You both are welcome to come." I slowly said the final part as an afterthought; secretly praying they would decline. I've been to a library with Fisha and one of her guy's before, and left twenty minutes later with a need to disinfect my ears for just hearing what they did under our study table.

Kirk's side glance to Fisha told me he wanted her to say no, so I was half-off the hook.

Frowning a little, Fisha replied with her golden eyes wide and so sad, "No thanks. But I wish you would come with us, we're hitting a few clubs Jim been to."

"Not interested, sorry," I quickly said in response, "Have fun, be safe."

With this final chain broken from my BFF obligations, I started back into the Hall. As I was just about to leave the veranda, some voice in my head told me that leaving Fisha alone without proper supervision was a mistake (this voice showed up every single time Fisha went out without me). So, to make this voice happy, I looked back at my pheromone-high friend and her blond Romeo and called over, "Seriously, Fisha. Be safe and call me sometime to let me know you didn't fall on the side of the street and crack your head open."

Another trait I put as a positive to Fisha was that she considered warnings like these as my way of showing I cared; not a nuisance as some many others would.

"I will, Ape," Fisha gave me another smile (this one completely for me and not her date) and waved, "Love you."

Waving back, I headed into the building, and left my best friend in the hands of one James T. Kirk.

_Author's Note: Whew! One long chapter. Not all of them will take this long to update or be this long, but I wanted to introduce Spock and Kirk in the same chapter. Hope you enjoyed it, please review._


	3. Meet Santa Claus

_Chapter 3: Meet Santa Claus and his Shaking Belly_

**Chapter's Quote: **_"Date rape!" my voice gasped in horror._

It happened after finishing the turkey club and half pint of chocolate milk I bought at the food court and ate at a table in the Historical-Philosophy section of the library. Sucking on another Butterscotch Sucky candy (also bought at the food court), I was in the depths of the second Orion Codex. While trying to pinpoint the verses that began showing the political influence of the writer overtaking the religious influence, I noticed something particular.

I was being watched…by Santa Claus.

He sat on an evergreen, overstuffed chair in the corner beside an open window. What convinced me of his occupation as St. Nicholas was the appearance of this man. As the famous rhyme versed it, he had merry dimples, rosy cheeks, a nose like a cherry, a broad face, and a little round belly that shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

Okay, so he never laughed and his tummy didn't shake, but this stranger's eyes did twinkle when I started staring right back at him.

Closing his book and setting it atop the side table beside his chair, Santa Claus then took off his golden metal framed reading glasses and placed them in the breast pocket of the Prussian blue sweater-vest he wore. Rising from the seat, he walked over to the oak table where I sat with five for thirteen Codex at my disposal.

He stopped when at the corner of my table and smiled with his tiny mouth that could hardly be seen beneath the clouds of his white beard.

"Good afternoon, Miss. Do you mind if I join you?" he even sounded as how one would imagine Santa Claus would. All jolly and wise with years.

For some reason my mouth said, "Sure," while all my mind could do was…, _'You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout I'm telling you why-'_

After taking the seat kitty-corner to my own, Santa picked up one of the Codex I had yet to explore and opened it. Carefully flipping the pages one by one, he gazed at each with a smile of familiarism; as if looking upon a memory laid out on the pages.

"You've been studying this Codex for hours," he told me; gaze still upon the ancient book in his wrinkled hands, "It's refreshing to see one as young as you valuing their contents."

Then his eyes peered back at me and his smirk grew. "You must be very intelligent indeed, young lady. I could not even begin to study these without the help of a second, translated manuscript until my late thirties."

"Thanks," I replied with bewilderment. Not everyday did an a present-giving elf sit down and start praising me for my brain power.

"Um," I mumbled a little; not exactly comfortable in this setting since interaction never has been my forte, "Not to sound rude, since you just complemented me and all, but who are you and why are you talking to me?"

Turns out his laugh did make his belly shake a little.

"I am Dr. Sebastian Hallet," he placed a hand on his chest, "And my interest in you is simple curiosity as to why a young woman like yourself is spending her evening in a library with dusty books full of dead languages when she could be off enjoying the company of friends and young men."

Forgetting the entire second part about his perceiving my lack of a social life, I instead asked with disbelief, "You're Dr. Hallet? As in the Dr. Hallet, head of the Department of Exoculturalism? The most revered exoculturalist of this age? I'm-I'm a huge fan!"

Again his belly jiggled. "Yes to the first two questions," Dr. Hallet laughed, "Perhaps, depending on the judge, to the second question. And I wasn't aware people other than thespians and rock stars could have fans."

"A fan of your work, I mean," I quickly corrected; practically quivering at the opportunity to talk with a man who held such knowledge and theories that branched out to all over the known and unknown universe.

"Really? You know of my work?"

I wondered if he was purposefully humble or truly didn't converse among circles of other exoculturalists enough to realize his own awesomeness. Either way I exclaimed, "Of course I know your work! Dr. Hallet, you're the reason why exoculturalism is what it is today. Nobody took our field seriously until you set out to prove the basic theories. That study you did of the Talaxian culture in relation to the Vaadwaur was brilliant!"

Dr. Hallet's brushed his beard and chin a bit as his little mouth grew into a bigger smile with each word I said. "Our field?" he repeated after I finished praising him, "So you're an exoculturalist as well?"

And my twenty-four year old, matured cheeks were back to blushing. If Starfleet had this effect on me the whole time I'd be there, I'd fake death just to leave early.

"Yeah, sorta."

"You're so young. How soon until you receive you're full doctorate?" he asked.

The blush grew like a bad rash (I'd almost preferred it _was_ a bad rash). "About the end of next year."

Hallet's face transformed from happy Santa to shocked Santa. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," my tone came out guilty; as if he would jump up and accuse me of being a hack because I was so much younger than him. From what I read, Dr. Hallet didn't receive a full doctorate in exoculturalism until he was forty-five (twenty-one years older than me for those without a calculator near by).

"Good Lord." His jolly face coloring pink.

Compared to his pink, my face resembled a strawberry painted rose red. "Sorry," I mumbled as my body started to shrink down in its seat.

This conversation was somersaulting into a twelve foot deep pool of awkwardness…and me without my life jacket.

Thankfully, Hallet threw me a lifesaver when he said, "Sorry? What have you to be sorry about? You're a brilliant, young mind. Knowing you chose the same field of study I did brings a sort of pride…not anger, I assure you. Tell me, with whom do I have the pleasure of sharing a table with?"

This was the second time that day. The guy may have claimed I held a brilliant mind, but from what I knew, brilliant people remembered to tell others their names within the first fifteen seconds of a conversation.

"April Pike, sir."

"Well, Ms. Pike," Dr. Hallet straightened back up and the blood started to recede from his face, "Do tell me your thoughts on my latest review over the Romulan birth symbols found on the moon Rotario."

So we talked, and talked, and then we talked some more. Hour flew by and the sun set outside the library's ceiling high windows, but not a silent moment overtook the Historical Philosophy wing. Topics roamed from Romulan to Vulcan to ancient Egyptian (around this point, Hallet exceeded his previous awesome score by having a private dinner delivered to our table).

When it comes to job perks, it's good to be a top professor in Starfleet.

As time passed, though, I noticed each hour brought more open books, holograms of ancient maps, and reader pads to our table. Discussion with Hallet kept my mind racing and popping up with new idea, so much so that my tongue failed to keep up. Also, shutting my mouth so Hallet could put in a sentence or two became a challenge.

Fisha, blond Romeo, and their clubbing could go suck lemons.

"Signs. Signs, Miss Pike. That is the entire basis and reasoning of exoculturalism."

By fifteen minutes after the hour hand hit nine, I sat in the chair backwards; my chin resting on it's crafted oak back-support. For what seemed like the eighth time that evening, Hallet turned the conversation back to his vision on our shared career. The man carried exoculture like a faith.

"Though we are only in the infant years of its evolution," said Hallet; his aged voice booming with youthful idealism, "exoculturalism's realm of possibilities reaches far beyond what we can imagine."

What Hallet meant by "realm of possibilities", pertained to that fact that a doctorate in exoculturalism was only given to the triple-fifth scholars. Triple-fifth scholars was a cheesy name we geek-types gave to a scholar who put over five-hundred hours in workshops/fellowships/dictations (I held a count of 474 hours…not counting this conversation), held five major degrees in the proper subjects (I currently kept certificates of master's degrees in intergalactic history, exocryptology, archaeology, and sociology in my safety deposit box…currently working on a major in humanities), and could only count five people total who they maintained a constant relationship with.

I only had two people on my list. Don't judge me.

"As exoculturalists, we've the rare ability to know a culture completely without becoming part of it."

"So why," I asked, "if exoculture is so great, did it take so long for institutions, like Starfleet, to recognize its worth?"

"Because, my dear," now Hallet's small lips smirked in a semi-devious manner (almost like an evil Santa….yeah, let's not go there in case kids are watching this), "With all this knowledge, theories are developed. Through these theories, we become judges of history, philosophers of the present, and sometimes - if you're very good at your job - even fortunetellers of an entire society's future."

Um…okay. I really didn't see myself as the purple velvet, crystal ball type.

Apparently, my poker face took a holiday to Las Vegas and decided to stay for the year, because Hallet could see my disbelief response to the last part.

"Miss Hallet, you believe that reoccurring cycles stand in relation to societies, don't you?"

"Of course," I replied.

"So take those cycles and that history and all you know of a culture," he picked up one of the books sprawled across our table and held it high for an example, "And what you have is that society's rulebook. Once you have the rulebook, the key exists to knowing pretty much how a culture's government or even the individual follower will react to certain situations. According to this theory, in some lights, no one is truly unique."

Wow. Deep stuff.

In the midst of opening my mouth, to add my two cents worth, the most appropriate noise in the world interrupted.

"_I'm a Barbie girl in the Barbie world. Life in plastic, it's fantastic. You can brush my hair-"_

Out of all my contacts, Fisha's number was the only one with a specialized ring tone. Completely her idea; I refuse to take credit for downloading a perverted song about a child's plaything (and Ken's lack of manhood looks weird once you realize that all men are suppose to have one).

"Geez! I'm so sorry," I exclaimed; rushing to stand from my seat as the second verse started, "It's my friend Fisha. I told her call…didn't expect it to be this early."

Fisha only called when she hit depressed drunk, and that usually came around 1 a.m.. Midnight, if she started the party early.

Jiggling his belly in laughter again (seriously, I wanted to take stick and poke that round, laughing machine), Hallet stretched out his plumpish arms and slowly stood up.

You could hear those rusty joints squeak.

"The clock striketh a quarter to the witching hour," he said after pulling his white, stiff collar above his left wrist and studying the classic wristwatch that adorned it (brilliant mind and able to accessorize with an outfit; you snap it, girlfriend!).

"Huh?"

The brilliant minded, snappy dressing man's talking confused me into ignoring Barbie and Ken's theme song that was providing background music for the inside of my knapsack.

"It's 10:42 in the evening," Hallet explained to my slightly addled mind.

"Oh. (pause) But doesn't the witching hour mean mid-"

"I enjoy Shakespeare too much to use him less than casually," the giant, gentle man explained. Reaching over and taking my limped, right hand, he enclosed it between both of his which felt warm and soft with age. "Miss Pike, it has truly been a blessing speaking with you about such a shared passion," Hallet pulled my hand to his lips and pecked it lightly (and totally unromantically; if he'd been a perv, my pervy sense would have tickled a warning hours ago), "I hope we meet again."

"Likewise," I smiled warmly at him. With that, Hallet walked away with the smell of cinnamon and holly in his wake. "Nighty night, Santa," I whispered after him.

"Excuse me?"

My eyebrows shot skyward and cheeks burned the shade of raspberries as Hallet turned and looked back at me with confusion, "Did you just call me Santa?"

Well this sucks with unfairness. I jokingly whisper about the one senior citizen who hasn't lost his hearing to old age.

"Uhhh." I really hated lying, but I called the man a mythical, Christmas character? What would any compassionate human do?

"_I'm a Barbie girl in the Barbie world-"_

"I should get that!"

I would like to thank Aqua, the Lord, and Fisha for bringing me this moment. Love to all of you.

Reaching into my knapsack, I pulled out my iPod 3.5 and pushed the phone button. "Fisha," I answered while slipping my sneakers back on (you try not taking off your shoes while dangling your feet over plush carpet and lemon smelling wood floors for eight plus hours then criticize my foot conduct), "You still want that hologram puppy? I'm in such an appreciative mood that if you asked me right now, I'd seriously consider helping you get one and hide it from fat-Bosh…Fisha, you there?"

Pause continued. This wasn't a good thing.

"BBBBBFFFFFFFFFFFFF….You're pretty."

The sad part of this was that if Fisha hadn't slurred the "pretty" to sound like "purrda," I'd have no idea that she was drunk. Feminine silliest knew no bounds where my friend was concerned.

Grabbing my jacket and magicianing it on while still keeping the iPod to my ear, I asked slowly (Fisha's attention and hearing leave right after good diction when she drinks), "What-do-you-need?"

Pause again.

In case you're wondering what happened to Hallet, he left after reconsidering the possibility that a smart cookie like me would call him "Santa." What can I say, us smarties go against the grain some times.

"Fisha? Sweetie, you okay?" this endearment I only used when Fisha was drunk. If she became sober and aware that I actually used a pet name for her, she'd insist that I call her that all the time…and this could never happen for the sake of my self respect.

"Don't feel good," she moaned back, "Jimmy…my drink…orange pukes." Then I heard a thud.

Um, okay. A bit out of Fisha's ordinary drunk dialing dialogue.

Time to take out my handy-dandy drunk friend translator gadget. Unfortunately (and surprisingly), no such thing existed within the many avenues of modern technology.

No dead tone from the other line showed up yet, so I kept yelling my friend's name in hopes that she or a good Samaritan would throw me a much needed clue.

"Fisha? Hello?…Did you pass out?" (Don't ask why I questioned her on whether she passed out or not. Yes, I'm well aware that if that answer was 'yes', she wouldn't actually answer me. People do stupid things when they're stressed out, such as asking stupid questions to unresponsive friends.)"

"Fisha!"

"Hello?" a strange voice, female but too Katharine Hepburn in tone depth to be Fisha, finally answered.

Probably sounding a bit ruder than meant, I harshly asked, "Who's this?"

"Who's this?"

"Well, Parrot-girl (Parrot-girl? I really needed to work on my witty comebacks during high-stress situations)," I replied; adding sarcasm to the harshness, "I'm a person who actually knows the owner of the phone you're holding. Now I'll ask again, who are you?..Oh! And have you, by chance, seen a intoxicated Joloxian girl around?"

Thankfully, whoever I had my jerk hat on for didn't hang up at the "Parrot-girl" comment and answered me. "You mean the chick who just crawled into the girl's room and had skin like snow?" Hepburn asked; her question not making my night any easier than it already wasn't.

"By crawling, do you mean metaphorically or was she literally crawling like a toddler to the restroom?""I thought she was a gurgling snake when I almost tripped over her," answered Hepburn.

"Shoot!" I slammed my head against the bookshelf to my left. When Fisha got sloshed, she never ended up going belly to floor. This information meant that something else was wrong other than one too many tips at the bar.

"Then there was this guy that was with her, holding her drink-"

"Guy?" I interrupted Hepburn/Parrot-girl, "Was he blond and studly? Possibility wearing a red suit that reminded you of the winter Olympics?""Blond and studly with a side order of delicious? Yes. Red suit? No."Bond guy? Overly-drunk BFF? And something orange? My mind contemplated, for a few ticks of the clock, all that I learned about the situation from over a telephone call. The conclusion I came to, where all these factors ended up to was-

"Date rape!" my voice gasped in horror.

"Over in the Social Problem sections; on the second floor and across the general study area," the night librarion, who had been eavesdropping on my conversation while cleaning up mine and Hallet's mess, said to me. Her gray eyebrows somehow pointed over to where the library would provide me with information on the horrific events that possibly were currently befalling Fisha in her intoxicated state of mind.

Ignoring (and most likely scowly; I scowl more often than intended) at the librarion, I headed towards the library's exit with full intentions of coming to my friend's aid.

"Parrot-girl," I said with new determination as I left Cochrane Hall's library, "Where are you at?"

In the background of her voice, my ears picked up the "Bop-Bop-Bop" of club dance music, so no surprise when I learned the Fisha had crawled into the female restroom of Club Delirious. Thanking Hepburn/Parrot-girl for her help, I ended the phone setting of my iPod and raced through the main entrance of Cochrane; out into the cool fog of night.

About the time my running feet got me down the front, concret stairs and halfway through the campus lawn, I vaguly realized that I had not one clue where Club Delirious was located. A club somewhere in the city…and there ended my knowledge of it.

"A cabbie might know," I muttered this as I typed NON-COMPUTER OPERATED CITY CABS into the search engine of my iPod. Personally, I hated riding in a vehicle not operated by a mentally capable being. Computer run cabs made me feel like my toaster had called in his better cousins to _do me in_ and then dump the body in a lake or stream.

_Murder by computer chips suck, _that's precisally what the voice in my head said to keep me busy from observing my surroundings; as any young, female lacking mace and a black belt should do (good to know I'm setting myself up to become a victim of mindless lust much like Fisha probably did…friend see friend do, friend want to do it too).

Anyway, as I was saying, my mind wasn't processing all information in a smooth and solid manner. Therefore, my slight overreaction for what came next shouldn't have been as suprising as it first deemed.

_AN: I wanted to add more, but I'm leaving for our country's captial for the next week. Thanks so much to all you reviewers for taking the time to bring me praise and assurance that this isn't a total waste of my time. Bring more reviews my way and I'll keep the story coming. If you're wondering about this chapter, and the lack of Spock and/or Kirk, this was an explanatory chapter because I need readers to know about exoculture. Also Dr. Hallet comes up again later on. So review and I'll return with more ideas for upcoming chapters._


	4. Meet Nyota

_Chapter 4: Meet Nyota…the One I Might have Hugged_

**Chapter's Quote:** _Yeah, I knew this attack on Kirk was nothing more than a release of a lot of pent up stress. Had there been a set of Chinese harmony balls around, I would have gladly used those instead._

So there I was. Running…and not paying much attention to anything but my own fears turned into a long stream of well-detailed daydreams.

Because of the set sun and cloudy night sky, the only visual help provided for my race to the street were scattered orbs of soft, orange light atop metal poles. My task of finding a suitable ride to Club Delirious had yet reached its end, so as I ran from dark patch to lit patch, my thumb scrolled down the iPod screen of listed options.

**Yellow Cab Co.** Promising. **Cabbies Incorporated**. Perhaps. **Fab Cabs for the Traveling Stab**. Umm…not so much…what exactly is a _Traveling Stab_?

"Miss Pike?"

Remember how my mind was centered mainly on fears of machine operated cabs and date rape (at some point it also played through some scenes of an old Quentin Tarantio movie about a woman sexually abused while in coma then got major revenge when she awoke)? Well these negative thoughts plaguing me, along with the backdrop of a dark night and me without a bodyguard named Shark, turned my reaction to one that belonged to a squirrel zapped by a taser one to many times.

I yelped, turned towards the person (the fun part of this was that, at the last second, I decided to round house kick them and lifted my right leg halfway up so I unintentionally impersonated a ballerina who tried but failed miserably). Because of my handicap version of a roundhouse kick, my left foot sneaker slid on the wet grass. This animated response ended with my face and front side kissing a recently mowed lawn.

Rewind and fast forward, in case you missed something: Person says my name. I, in one of my lesser moments of full mental capability, screamed, twirled, slipped, and landed face down in damp dirt and grass.

My forefathers would be so proud.

"Oh my!" another voice (not the one who said, "Miss Pike?") exclaimed at my performance.

As I picked my pathetic self up from the ground, the sound of feet hurrying over got louder and louder.

"Here," the person who I shocked, said, "Let me help you."

In a small attempt to redeem myself from the inescapable hole of idiocy that was my current state, I waved a hand of "no" and got to my knees; wiping a jacket arm over my face to clean away the pieces of grass and mist.

"No, thank you," I replied, "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? That fall may have sprained your left ankle, and the fall's force focused mainly on your frontal cortex."

I stilled my movements. Not because of what the person said (my ankle felt fine, and some unconscious time might do me good), but of who the voice belonged to.

Finally looking up at the helpful do-gooders, my eyes could not mistake the tall, pale figure illuminated in the orange glow of the lawn lights. His pointy ears, once again, a dead giveaway.

Gulp. "Commander Spock," I squeaked; my cheeks matched my voice's comfort level and began to feel hot despite the cool air.

"I apologize for startling you, Miss Pike," he said.

"Fine - It's fine - That's fine," I ridiculously stuttered as my mind screamed, _You sound like a dork. Just shut up! Shut up!…Oh, and after this, avoid all possible contact with the Vulcan race. I feel it's for our own good to not appear like someone replaced me with a bowl of gummy oatmeal._

"You sure you're not hurt?"

Standing up to prove my top notch health, I came eye level with Spock's companion. Wow! For our race (human, I mean…really, you should have picked that up already), this chick was smokin. Unlike Spock's towering six foot-I'm-so-freakin-tall-it-intimidates-well-adjusted-girls-trying-to-run-across-lawns, this woman appeared to share my height of five foot seven. Her skin ran without blemish and spoke of African origins with its creamy ebony tones. The hair that framed her beautifully shaped face was also brown; long and smooth; curled a bit for a night out with her Vulcan date.

"Nope," I assured the pretty girl, "I'm-"

"-Fine," she finished the predictable reply and smiled kindly. Then with a glance to Spock, the lady clearly tried to send the message, "Sweetie, introduce me to the nice girl who just nose-dived into the dirt."

Apparently these two had hung out enough to read each other's looks, because Spock gestured between us and introduced me as Miss April Pike, a student who knew his mother and he met earlier this day. His companion I now knew was Nyota Uhura, a Starfleet cadet who he spent time with socially.

Eyeing their close proximity and how Spock's hand was at Nyota's lower back when he introduced her, I guessed there was more _socializing _going on than implied. A quirk of my eyebrow at her and Nyota's reply of a smirk hinted that she vouched for my guess at their relationship, and didn't have a problem with the way Spock voiced it.

"Nice to meet you, Nyota," I held out my hand and smiled; silently praying my attempt to seem friendly and not use her official title of Cadet Uhura would pull through. Spock by himself was trouble for my nerves, but Spock plus Nyota, I had a feeling, wouldn't cause me to stutter and trip on lawns as much.

Her smile never wavered a moment as she shook my hand, "Likewise, April."

Score!

"Are you in a hurry somewhere?" Spock asked after his girlfriend and I finished the initial bonding ritual of a handshake.

"Yeah!" I shouted; causing Nyota's eyes to widen. My volume and her reaction never registered. My mind too focused on replaying Fisha's phone call, passing out, and Hepburn/Parrot girl telling me their location.

"Sorry to seem rude, but I have to get to Club Delirious right now!" I got ready to run again but the in my head yelled, _Hey idiot! You don't know where Club Delirious is, remember?_

This moment of clarity did nothing for my decorum in front of Spock and his pretty pal.

"Dang it!" my seethed, less loudly than before, and slapped my forehead. By now one of three possibilities were taking place: 1) Fisha was puking her guts out in a unsanitary bathroom with her fellow chug-a-lugs cheering on the sidelines, 2) Blond flyboy was really the sex offender my Negative-Nancy side molded him out to be and was taking advantage of this after school special no-no, or 3) my BFF was dead.

Yes, more (and less extreme) possibilities existed, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept everything calm and logical at bay.

"What's wrong?" Nyota asked. That sweetheart of a lady felt the need to share in my distress. If hugging came naturally for me, I would definitely have given her a squeeze.

I replied, "I have no idea where Club Delirious is."

"Oh! I know that," Nyota exclaimed; appearing ready to jump up and down like a Scottish Terrier, "It's out on Marina Boulevard. Before you hit San Francisco Bay, there's a clump of bars and clubs cadets like to relax at. Club Delirious is the newest one there."

Spock added, "Do you require our help for a ride there?"

"No thanks," I called back; already in a sprint towards the street. My fingers highlighted the number of **Yellow Cab Co.**

**

* * *

  
**

Twenty-eight bucks in cab fare later, I stepped out onto Marina Blvd. As expected, the street was lit up by headlights, club and bar sign lights, street lights, lights from inside the establishments, and one girl's violently pink dress that was manufactured with more wiring than fabric. The once quiet night, at the Academy, was replaced by rap and hip hop shivering the cars passing by and parking; from inside the clubs and a few bars, I picked up music types from salsa to blues.

After paying the cabbie, I speed-walked over to the sidewalk (never trust car drivers who choose to drive near places that serve drinks with names like Sex on the Beach and Broken Down Golf Cart) and felt very much like the lama in the cow herd among the many cadets and their scantly dressed dates. Under the dulled music, there held a constant stream of clicking high heels to the sidewalk's cement. Skirts of all kinds coming to and fro; some waiting in lines outside the few red-roped off clubs, and others laughing far too loudly at whatever attempt at a joke her Starfleet escort just made.

Not saying there weren't any female cadets or male common folk around, but my belittlement towards the walking, drunk tramps and their lusting flyboys immediately overtook ninety percent of my attention.

Due to my choice of clothing (jeans, sneakers, my black shirt with an accomplished Rubric's cube pictured on it, and green jacket), I doubted I'd find anyone humble enough to point out Club Delirious.

Time to break out the iPod once again (it's like my light saber…only less deadly…as long as I don't throw it at your head).

"You got to be kidding me!" I yelled at iPod once it announced its uselessness due to no wireless connection, "In this day and age? Seriously?"

My logically brain (the side that failed to save me from hitting the ground face first earlier), got a head start on my rising anger. Before I could loss self-constraint and become the girl-dork waving her iPod around, muttering about the failures of technology as she tried to locate wireless bars, my brain cooked up another idea to try out.

In the loudest Barbie-dream-house voice manageable, I said over the crowd, "Like, OMG! Where the hellion is Club Delirious? I'm like completely lost!"

Those nearest started walking away from me with noticeably more thrust in their speed, but some dingbat (obviously not in eyesight of my shabby appearance) hollered, "It's the place kitty corner to Nick's Drinking Hole, babe! With the funky letters."

With the funky letters…didn't understand that portion of the clue.

"Hey sexy, you want some company?"

Sexy?…This guy really had no idea of who he talking to and how I was dressed, so naturally I pretended I didn't hear him (and positioned my knapsack so it was in prime swinging-slash-hitting perverts position).

Located at the voice's guessable origination was where Nick invited people into his Drinking Hole. I started over that way and searched across the busy street to see if there were any funky letters making themselves known. To my surprise, flickering off and on in several neon colors, a hologram of giant letters took turns spelling out parts of **Club Delirious** (think glow in the dark pastels meet strobe light meet bubble letters).

"Huh, dude was right," I said with a touch of awe "Those letters are funky."

* * *

Good aspect of Club Delirious: no red velvet rope (so even people sporting the Rubric's cube could get in without rebuff). Other good aspects of Club Delirious: none.

Music so loud I'm pretty sure my eardrum started leaking. People here, people there, people everywhere. I didn't mind people (as long as their stupidity left me alone), but I couldn't count the number of degrading looks and sneers I received; mostly from clones of the high-heeled women outside (these too decided to step out of their houses in sparkly kitchen rags that covered only the basic of anatomy).

Call me anti-social all you want; I honestly failed to understand how anyone could feel relaxed (or clean) in a dance club atmosphere. Pushing through loads of people, my feet literally stuck at the floor once or twice (I blame the Orion male swinging his arms around; knocking over two of his pals' drinks…apparently there was an orchestra around looking to him for the beat). Anyway, past the bar with its sticky floors, I ventured through the gyrating, howling, lusting crowds drinking and dancing (so close to one another I wouldn't be surprised if someone went home with a disease they didn't come here with).

Out of the drugs, sex, and rock n' roll philosophy, rock n' roll was the only one I sought after on a Friday night.

"Excuse me. Pardon me."

People. People. People. All shapes, colors, and (unfortunately) smells. The one uniting factor was what they all had on their minds: sex. I knew this not only from the dancing and touching (people here apparently left their personal bubbles at the door), but one of them extended a hand of generosity…literally.

A hand grabbed my butt and voice that stank with alcohol said over the music's _'Oh yeah/ Shorty yeah/ You so hot baby yeah'_, "Hey farm girl, wanna party?"

"I have the runs."

Hand gone. Farm girl dodged yet another unneeded situation.

Finally (about the time I hit deafness and my eyes saw blurs instead of people and laser lights), I located the restrooms near a cushioned sitting area. Stepping over people searching for their bubble gum in someone else's mouth (apparently Club Delirious catered to the romantic in everyone as well as our natural tendency to break dance), I'd almost made it to revolving door leading to the ladies' room when-

"Hey, it's March!"

In all his wobbly, uncoordinated glory, holding a half-glass of some clear liquid that fizzed (and probably could knock a baby elephant off its feet) in one hand and the other arm wrapped around a some girl nice enough to lick his ear clean, blond flyboy/suspected sex offender called over to me. Carefree smile painted on his arrogant, drunk face.

"I know you…you," he struggled to point at me (noodle arms…another sad side effect of boozing on too much booze). Detaching from hooker he was destined to spend the rest of his life with, Cadet Jim Kirk began his trip and tumble through the crowd to me

"Flyboy," I seethed with a murmur. Huffing through my teeth (added a growl or two), I stomped over and grasped Kirk by the elbow.

A bit too harsh. No…okay, yes. Did I wake up the next morning filled with regret. No way! You want to get drunk. Go ahead; your liver is your business. But no one endangers my friend for a couple shots of Captain Morgan and kisses from someone with a sixty percent chance of holding a card to the Herpes Club.

"Where is she?" I yelled; my shaking him having more effect than it should due to his weakened state.

"Stop it…who?" he slurred and pulled me off.

"Fisha!" I screamed; that logical part of my brain on temporary sabbatical, "Fisha! Your date. Met her earlier at the Academy. Jaloxian chick – green hair…skin white as pearls – (Pause) – Does any of this ring a bell in your stupid, blond head!?!"

Squinting his eyes to concentrate (apparently brain power wasn't one of this guy's better abilities), my helpless helper finally recognized what I said actually had meaning. "Fisha…the Jaloxian babe," then his eyes fixed more on me, "And you're her friend March."

Again with the March. Did this guy honestly believe someone looked at a baby girl and said, "Dear, let's name her March. That way, she'll be condemned to the life of an outcast before hitting puberty."?

I corrected him, "April."

"Right, April…I meant that."

Sigh. Looking past his lack of character, and focused now on the reason I paid twenty-eight dollars to end up in this orgy of vices.

"Kirk, I need you to listen," I ordered and stared hard into those baby blue eyes to maintain his attention through the fog of drunk, "Where did Fisha go? She might not be okay, so I really need to find her."

"We were drinking," he explained with some struggle (drinking?..really?...thank you so much, Jimmy, I never would have guessed that without your vital help), "Fisha started feeling sick."

Silence.

"And then she went to the restroom?" I questioned; hoping to jog his memory faster.

"Uhhh…"

"Oh come on." Don't know exactly why I dragged blond Flyboy along into the ladies' room with me.

The bright, florescent lights above the mirror made both of us wince, and the screeches of shocked girls we interrupted from glossing up their lips didn't help. Leaving Kirk at the sinks, I dodged the perfumed stamped racing to escape the scary scenario of a boy in the bathroom (seriously, were these girls all recent graduates of a non-coed school?) and began pushing toilet stall doors open.

Three stalls down, the door's swing halted when a pink sequin, mini-dress covered bottom, protruding up in the air, got in the way. Because of my presence when UPS dropped off this dress from a few months ago, I didn't have to notice the turquoise hair and white skin to know who was curled awkwardly up against the toilet.

"Fisha!" Dropping to my knees beside my best friend, I placed my hands on her scrunched torso and tried to gently turn Fisha over to lay her on the ground face-up.

Kirk's voice hovered above the two of us, from where he stood right outside the stall. "Shit," he state softly; the situation dragging him unkindly out of alcohol buzzed world.

Once Fisha laid straight on the black, tiled floor, I searched her face of evidence from whatever was wrong. Her eyes and face were unmoving and calm as if asleep, sweat created a second layer over her facial skin and visible chest, but what stuck out the most was the orange goo trailing out the corners of her mouth. If Fisha had vomited earlier, this orange substance was what came out.

_Jaloxian blood is orange_, a creepy, grim reaper voice creped from the dark regions of my mind and reminded me.

"She's not breathing."

Attention immediately back on Kirk.

Before I could ask him to repeat what I clearly heard, Flyboy explained in a not-so-drunk tone, "Jaloxians breath through their skin. When they start to suffocate, the color turns to gray."

Looking back at Fisha, the shifting color of her once pearly white skin to eerie gray became significantly noticeable to me. Letting go a short sob (by now, my cool was packing up to go stay with my logic), I placed a hand over my mouth and took a couple deep breaths through my nose.

"We need to call an ambulance," I said to Kirk; my voice unsteady and eyes still on Fisha's horrific form. The vision of her vivacious club dress offset by the deterioration of her body became blurrier as salty water filled my eyelids.

Way to go April. Fisha's at death's door, and you picked this moment to become a pile of useless girly slog.

Roughly wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned back to Kirk to repeat my statement about an ambulance. No need, though, since he already held a cell to his ear.

Wow. Blond Flyboy do-it decorum in sticky situations hope-scotched him ten points above his previous score of total imbecile.

"Bones," Kirk finally got an answer from the other end, "I need…yes I know what time it is."

Bones? Bones was not an ambulance service hailed to come save Fisha. This wasn't good. Now I had to kill Kirk for his certain stupidity and selfishness in dire situations.

"What are you doing!?!" I screamed (my natural intend to remain calm no longer housed anywhere in the shell of my body), "Get off that darn phone and call an ambulance!" As I pushed myself to my feet and lunged at Kirk like a rabid bobcat (teeth bared and all), he backed up and held a hand out to stop me from scratching his baby blue eyes into nothingness.

Yeah, I knew this attack on Kirk was nothing more than a release of a lot of pent up stress. Had there been a set of Chinese harmony balls around, I would have gladly used those instead.

"I don't know what's wrong with her," he's voice tired, confused, slightly unsober, and more than slightly distracted due to my continuous attack at him, "She's – Would you stop that! – She's Jaloxian."

Unbelievably, in the midst of my screeching and screaming at this guy (honestly, I have no idea why security hadn't showed up yet to drag us both out), I picked up the voice on the other end of Kirk's phone ask, "What are her symptoms exactly, Jim?"

Assault of the crazy woman ceased.

One thing I know I'll always recognize for the rest of my life was the voice of a professional in the field of medicine. Their geriatric words and passionate yet serious volume of voice (they learn all this at secret orientation lessons then make a blood oath never to reveal it) are a dead giveaway at hours of learning about ways people get boo boos then treating them firsthand.

"I don't know…" Kirk admitted to medical practicing _Bones_, "She's not breathing. Other than that…"

Clearly the alcohol consumed by this man still blocked a decent amount of coordination and problem solving skills within his usual arsenal. Aware that time was being cut off by the seconds, I pushed his blocking arm aside and grabbed the cellular device from his other hand.

"Hey!"

"You're drunk; therefore useless!" I shot back.

Giving Kirk the view of my back, I held the cell to my ears. "Whoever this is," I said as I dropped once again to Fisha's side, "My friend is a Jaloxian female, age 26. Her skin is turning gray from lack of oxygen, she's been sweating profusely, has been unconscious for at least - (checked Pooh Bear wristwatch) - eighteen minutes, and there's evidence that she's vomited blood. She's not on any medication other than the usual Jaloxian vitamins, and I'm pretty sure she's not currently sexually active (I glanced behind to double check that Flyboy didn't look carnally satisfied…he appeared tired and intoxicated but nothing else). Now tell me what's wrong with her." Then I took a deep breath to get back some of my own oxygen.

Pause. Though I picked up a sigh and slight mumbling.

"Ah," Bones verbally snapped his fingers at a mental revelation, "Did you check her ears?"

"Her ears?"

"Yes. Check them for more blood."

"Okey dokey," I conceded slowly; beginning to second-guess this guy's medical affiliations (meth dealers have been known to sound like doctors). Bending over Fisha's still face, I brushed aside her turquoise hair, moist and cool from sweat, and felt something warmer and stickier than the hair. Peering closer, I saw trails of orange blood stained from the inside of Fisha's ear to the back of her neck.

"Hypers," I let my reaction escape at the sight of the icky and unexpected symptom, "Yep, she's bleeding from the ears."

"What?" Finding a way to become an even greater nuisance, Kirk placed his _grand_ amount of upper body weight (muscular figures weigh more than they look, people) on the placement of his hands on my shoulders and leaned over to get a better look. The part of this I really enjoyed was the mist of alcohol smelling breath that carried from his mouth down to my nose.

Bones saved his buddy from my elbow _slipping _behind and finding Flyboy's kibbles n' bits by moving on to another question. "Has she had any earth alcohol tonight?"

"I don't know," I replied, "I don't partake in Fisha's illicit hobbies…most of the time."

"We traded drinks," the heavy drunkard's breath hit my sense of smell again.

"Huh?" Twisting over to face Kirk, I saw his pretty face express new revelation.

"Earlier," Kirk continued voicing his thought; thankfully, this included standing up straight again (I rolled my aching shoulders and dubbed the injury as heavenly punishment for not getting at Fisha about her partying), "I ordered a mojito and Fisha got a different drink…I don't remember (pay thanks to that mojito for the memory loss, Flyboy)…some drink from her planet. I think she mentioned someone never letting her drink cocktails from earth…An allergy that she might-."

I audibly gasped. That person Fisha mentioned, who never let her order earthly drinks at bars, was me.

"Listen," Bones explained from his end, "We need to get your friend to the Academy hospital. Bleeding at the ears is a definite sign of a brain seizure in Jaloxians. She's probably allergic to earth alcohol. Females of her species with a certain blood anomaly react almost fatally to our type of-"

_Alcohol_, I finished mentally. At an unrecorded date in my past, I read an article about this blood anomaly and mentioned it to Fisha. In return she digressed that her aunt and a few of her sisters knew they couldn't drink earth's alcohol. This exchange led to a near psychotic mission, on my part, of keeping my friend from ever consuming our alcohol. Because I don't go to bars and keep Fisha busy with other (less dangerous to our brain cell growth) activities, her reaction to earth alcohol never came up as a problem.

Later I would ask her where she left her naturally given, self-preservation instincts as she left the dorm room tonight.

"-I'll meet you and Jim at the ER!" then came a dial tone signally that my brain had missed the final part of what Bones said. Chance had it that I missed the instructional part of our conversation (note to self: learn to mentally wander off at times when my attention is not crucial to the life of my best friend).

"Wait!" I yelled at no one, "What did you say?"

Snatching the cell back from my grasp, Kirk started dialing and said, "Bones wants us to call an ambulance and meet him at the emergency room."

Finding no need to put in a word of argument, I closed my mouth and looked back at Fisha's ashen face. In a rare act of companionship (yes, I'm well aware of my antisocial tendencies, but my friend was dying so exceptions could be made) my hand reached over and grasped onto her thin wrist; my thumb stroking her cooling skin.

"This is Cadet James T. Kirk. I need an ambulance. There's a Jaloxian woman here who ingested alcohol and is experiencing fatal results."

My mind barely registered how Flyboy's voice rebirthed; now sounded more Tom Cruise's A Few Good Men than earlier's Risky Business Tom Cruise.

_AN: So sorry for the beyond late update. Please review and review and then tell others to review! I love them and appreciate them and cuddle them…um, not so much that last one._


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